


Untitled; The Aurora Davis Story

by Sydney_Roseland



Category: Original Work
Genre: Asthma, F/F, Friendship, Ghosts, Haunted Houses, Hurricane Katrina, Listening to Welcome to Night Vale, Panic Attacks, Platonic Cuddling, spn references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-02-05 08:17:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1811602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sydney_Roseland/pseuds/Sydney_Roseland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Words aren’t worth a thing until the person who said them is gone. People pay a pretty penny to read the works of long-dead authors. I suppose I count, as I’ve been dead a time or two. Come with me, and I’ll tell you my story. My name was Aurora Davis, and this is the story of my best friend’s death, meeting a prince, and learning to fly without wings. This is a story of death, and what happens when it doesn’t occur as expected. This is a story of afterlives lived to their fullest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Untitled; The Aurora Davis Story

**Author's Note:**

> I would love an official beta, if anyone would help me out with that! I'll have plenty of time to continue writing this summer, but as it's an original novel it might be hard to use my muse all the time.

Chapter One  
Words aren’t worth a thing until the person who said them is gone. People pay a pretty penny to read the works of long-dead authors. I suppose I count, as I’ve been dead a time or two. Come with me, and I’ll tell you my story. My name was Aurora Davis, and this is the story of my best friend’s death, meeting a prince, and learning to fly without wings. This is a story of death, and what happens when it doesn’t occur as expected. This is a story of afterlives lived to their fullest.

Hope is not a tangible thing. It wafts in and out of lives on storm clouds and hospitals and cell phone bars in the wilderness. Hope comes into your life and then moves on. Hope is my falling point.

You never realize how much you need someone until they’re gone. Or you’re gone. Or something like that, because neither of us were ever really gone, and… I’ll just start from the beginning. I won't tell you about myself first. I'm going to show you my world the way I see it, and explain the details in order from most to least important, or at least I'll try.

My best friend's name was Sven Matthews, (I suppose it still is,) but we called him Candlewax, because of the way his voice dripped and his eyes shone with fire. His hair almost matched mine, and in our small town everyone's accent was the same. We liked pretending to be twins in big cities, just because we could, and people would believe us. We grew up in each other's backyards, and his dad built us tree houses that were sort of attached, if we climbed out the windows and used the fence a bit. Everything was good, and we were happy, until my mom got married.

We moved away, to a dinky town in the middle of Nowhere, Florida, USA. Nothing exciting happened at all there... Actually, scratch that. Nothing happened until a few days after Candlewax came to visit. But, first, a bit about the house. Not the one we moved to, no, but the one I discovered. It was amazing. It wasn't your typical, abandoned house in the woods. No, this was Florida, and Florida doesn't do things like that. I found the house when I was, of all things, canoeing. It was half underwater and I rolled my eyes and kept going because I figured it was there after Katrina. Long story short- I was right.

Candlewax, though, he- well, he likes to question everything. It's one of the reasons we were best friends. Are. Were. Death is odd like this, keeps you guessing about tenses. Anyway, when he got to my house, the first thing we did was put on swimming suits in my room and slip jeans on overtop. It wasn't a big deal, anyway, because.. Well. That's part of the story, too.

"I'll race you down the stairs," he yelled, because he'd changed faster and was already halfway down them. I've always laughed his races off, because, well.. I'm kind of all bones and bits of chub and no muscle. So I ignored him and took a minute to look at myself in the mirror; not to admire myself, because who is actually that vain? But I glanced across my awkward, long limbs and my too-short eyelashes and my boring, stormy blue eyes and I decided that I like myself the way I am. At least for today, that is. And then I put on mismatching socks and my lucky Doc Martens and locked my bedroom door behind me because my stepdad is annoying and I slid down the banister to look cool and ended up looking like a total klutz because I am, but that's okay because for this moment, I was happy, and nothing would ruin it. For a while, anyway.

Candlewax laughed and helped me down because I might be taller, but he's definitely strong enough ((stronger than I am, at least.)) And we grabbed leftover pancakes out of the refrigerator and walked out the door ((reminding my sisters, "no, you can't come with us, girls, you're only eight. Crocodiles like eating little girls like you!" and watched them squeal and run away laughing.))

We carried the canoe together, awkwardly, for the eight full feet to the creek behind the house, and slid it into the water before clambering in. We counted aloud as we row together and we laughed when the birds fly away because we were too loud. And then I remembered the house, and after an hour, we finally found it (in other words, we paddled around until I remembered where it had been).

But the house looked different, now, somehow, and I couldn't quite understand why. My sleuthing skills hadn't really popped up yet, but my curiosity got the best of me and I managed to talk Candlewax into rowing closer until I realized that a window was open. I wondered to myself if the owners had returned ("After all these years?" I asked myself, with good reason, and worry started to claw at my subconscious.) 

Anxiety hit me like a tidal wave, and I reached back to clasp Candlewax's hand. "I think I forgot to take my medicine today," I stuttered, eyes still trained on the open window and the torn curtains floating in the breeze. He held my hand carefully, as if I'm something he didn't want to break. My heartbeat reminds me, looking back, of thunderstorms on the roof, pounding at me, so close but somehow not close enough, and I couldn't breathe.

He let go of my hand and I slumped against his knee, surrendering the paddle to his willing grasp, and he managed to bring us to shore, the house just out of sight, as the panic subsided. My heartbeat slowed so much that for a split second I thought I might have been dying, but his fingers twirled my hair until I could breathe again. I hadn't had one in weeks, an attack, and not one that bad in years. I swallowed the thick, heavy air and sat up slowly. "I think that was enough exploring for today, Roar, don't you?" The question was soft, as if it was a suggestion and not a command, and I appreciated it. I nodded, and without another word, he handed me my paddle and we began home, tapping our feet to keep in time.

It's killing me not to explain to all of you why this isn't romantic, so, for one thing, mental illness and anxiety shouldn't be romanticized, and comfort can absolutely be platonic. You have to realize that someone breaking down isn't a chance for you to be a hero they're bound to fall in love with, but a chance to be a friend they feel they can depend on. Also, he's asexual, I'm not interested, and nothing's going to happen between us, not like that anyway, so just stop, okay? This isn't a love story. So, keep that in mind, I mean, there's love, but it's not romantic or anything. Well, there's some romance, but that has nothing to do with this. Okay, getting back on track now.

We returned home with no other major problems and ate dinner as if nothing had happened. I couldn't worry my mom, she had enough on her plate, and though Candlewax thought I should tell her, he remained silent as well. We listened to the newest episode of our favorite podcast and fell asleep to the mystery in Cecil's voice. Little did we know, our lives would soon become almost as odd as the town of Night Vale.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I really appreciate it. Please leave kudos if you particularly liked it, and comments if there's any mistakes that you noticed.


End file.
